Alone
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: So, this is a bunch of Stangst. Each chapter is a different dabble/ one-shot. There is some random weird fluff thrown in there. Not too descriptive, but here are some trigger warnings for blood, Stan Pines, mental instability, etc. {Stan is his own trigger warning :P} Some Ford, mostly Stan. A random Fidds thrown in there for ya.
1. Stan

**I don't even know anymore. Tw: Stanley pines and his sad life. Lol, Idk what this is help me.**

* * *

The knife slid smoothly out of his stomach. It wasn't serrated, thank goodness. Stan winced as he quickly applied pressure to the wound. He was bleeding out fast.

He had been walking down the street in the middle of the night, considering whether he should rob a store for a bite to eat or maybe sneak some cash from some fools wallet when it happened. His hood was up and he was turning a corner when out of nowhere a cold metal was pressing into the back of his neck.

"Into the alleyway, now." a tired voice rasped out. Stan internally snorted. Whatever was happening, he was sure this man was a rookie. The gun was shaking against his head and probably wasn't even loaded. Stan played along until they were both in the alleyway.

"H-hey. Whoever your workin' for, I swear to pay 'em off. Let's just talk this out like gentleman, yeah?" Stan pretended to stutter. On the inside, he was grinning. He could practically feel the fear rolling off this nutter.

The man grunted and shouted unnecessarily loud, trying to cover up his nervousness. "On the ground! Now!"

Stan started to kneel, then quickly shot upward and knocked the gun out of the man's hands. He noted that the man was little more than a boy, and was dressed as if from the ghetto. _Probably doing some sorta gang initiation._ Stan himself had done a few of those, none had anything to do with putting a gun to a random man's head though.

He swiftly knocked the boy to the ground, kicking the gun away and growled. The boy squeaked in fear but attempted to kick Stan's legs out from underneath him. Stan stumbled and the boy lunged, his hand going to Stan's middle. They both gasped. The boy looked stricken with fear and guilt. He spared Stan a glance before speedily running from the darkened dead end.

Stan chuckled without humor. Typical.

Now he was bleeding out, more than a mile from his only home. (The StanleyMobile.) _Well, this sucks._ Stan carefully gripped the edge of his shirt and pulled. He ripped it hard enough that part of the fabric came off, and he carefully wrapped it as tight as he could make it around his middle.

He pulled himself up with minimal effort. It wasn't like he wasn't used to this sort of thing. This was just one of many, many wounds.

Stan was trudging down the street, attempting to make it back to the car where his medical supplies were slightly, only slightly mind you, better than the impromptu  
bandage. He looked up when a car on the side of the road stopped beside him. He froze, staring suspiciously at the vehicle. He watched as the window rolled down.

"Ya alrigh' there?"

It was a man, a very scrawny, nerdy looking man. Stan snorted internally, either this man had a heart of gold and was very brave or very stupid. Who stops the car for a bleeding homeless man twice your size in the middle of the night? _This guy, I guess._

Stan didn't respond, he just clung tighter to his waist and kept on walkin'. _Looks can be deceiving, this guy could be a secret agent for the government, one of Rico's men, or just some nobody, but I ain't takin' that risk._

...

Fiddleford had been driving home, out late that night after working overtime, to see a man making his way very slowly down the street. When Fidds headlights illuminated the man in question, he gasped.

The man was scuffed and dirty, blood pooling from his midsection. _Heaven's ta Betsy! Wha' happened ta that poor man?!_ Fidds quickly rolled the window down, "Ya alrigh' there?" _Obviously not._

The man kept walking, leaving Fidds gaping. " Now jus' wait one moment!" Fiddleford climbed outta the truck and stood right in front of the man, who glared at him. Fiddleford didn't back off.

"Watcha want, nerd? Leave me be!" He growled. Fidds stood his ground.

"No! Yer bleedin'! Where are ya goin'? Can I give ya a ride there?" The man looked shocked for a moment before he settled on annoyance.

"Look, kid, just leave me be. Go back to ya truck and leave me-" The man doubled over, and Fidds moved to help but was batted away by a large bloody hand. Fidds eyes widened in fear, (For the man, of course.)

"Please let me help. Please?"

"I-arg.- could be a killer for all ya know! How do ya know I don't deserve this?"

Fidds was stumped for a moment. He hadn't considered that, but then he thought, why would a murderer bring that up? " Because if you were a murderer, then ya woulda let me help ya! Taken it ter yer advantage!"

The man looked at him in disbelief, then laughed. "I suppose your right." He stood up a bit straighter, still clinging to his side. "I'm trying to get to my car. It's not far from here. So you can go. I'll be fine."

Fidds shook his head, "Ya need a doctor! Yer really bleedin'."

The man snorted. "I've treated worse, really. It looks worse than it is." He tried to keep walking, but Fidds wouldn't let him. "No. I'll take ya there, if ya won't let me take ya to a professional, then I can do tha' at least."

The man looked so confused that it nearly broke Fidds heart. " Why won't you leave me be? I'll be fine!" He tried to push past the scrawny southern.

That's of course when the lack of food, water, and all his blood loss ganged up on him all at once and he fell over once more, unconscious. Fidds kinda sorta caught him.

" Oh dear."

...

Stanley woke up.

His eyes were still closed. For a moment, he thought maybe he was back at home. There was something soft beneath him, and there was the sound of someone else's breathing in the room.

 _Ford?_

His eyes shot open, and he realized he wasn't at home at all. Shooting upwards he naturally grasped for a bat that wasn't there. He realized he wasn't in a motel either. He slowed down when he noticed the throbbing pain around his abdomen.

"Oh."

He remembered now. He looked around to see that weird guy sitting in the corner of the room, snoring softly. _Perfect. Now I can finally get back...WHERE AM I?!_

Stan groaned. He laid back down on the bed with a huff. _What the actually freak is this? Does this count as kidnap?_ Stan thought agitatedly. All the noise woke up the nerd, who sat up with a yelp.

"Wha'? What's goin' on?!" The kid's eyes landed on Stan's glaring ones and he smiled, "Yer awake! Sorry, but ya passed out in the street an' all and I couldn' just leave ya there. Names Fiddleford Mcgucket, at yer service!"

Stanley grunted, "Stan." Stan felt kinda awkward now, he hadn't had much human interaction outside of scamming people or trying not to die. He had noticed the nice, white bandage around his stomach.

"Uh...thanks Fiddlesticks...I should really be goin'." Stan moved to get up, only to get pushed back down. "Hey! What is this?!"

The kid looked apologetic. "I'm real' sorry, but ya could open yer wound if ya move too much! I don' wanna bring the doctor back."

Stan's eyes widened in alarm, he got up, pushing Fiddleford aside, totally ignoring his cries of worry. "What doctor?!"

"Hey now! Calm down! I called a friend 'o mine and he fixed ya up! Why are ya freakin' out?!"

"Because the last doctor to look me over, took my kidney!"

Fidds stared in shock. "I-I'm sorry, but I can promise he didn't take yer kidney. Or anythin' like tha'." He backed away. Stan realized he was probably a bit more than scary looking. He backed down,

"Look, I'm sorry for yellin', but I..." Stan sighed. He started to tilt, "I'm about to fall over agai-off!" He fell back on the bed, looking exhausted. Fidds hovered nervously,

"What jus' happened? Do ya need somethin'?"

Stan coughed, "Water."

Fidds eyes widened and he ran out of the room with a swift, 'be righ' back!"

Stanley felt a little bad for conning the guy, but what else was he gonna do? Getting up from his place on the bed, Stanley found a single window in the room and blessed his lucky stars it was a ground floor bedroom. He quickly opened the window, and clambered out, making sure to close the glass behind him. He gave the house one last look, one filled with confusion, gratitude, and guilt before he promptly turned and started walking.

 _Standing alone doesn't mean I'm alone, it means I'm strong enough to handle things by myself._

 _..._

 _You don't have to be alone.  
_

* * *

 **I was drunk on popsicles and Tumblr. This is not my fault. I didn't want to make this a complicated series, and I don't know how Fidds got in here, this was meant to be Stan-d alone during his grifter days, but...yeah.**

 **Idk about the ending, I wasn't sure how to finish it, so I looked up 'alone' quotes on google. Praise Google! Yay. I know this wasn't very good, I am sorry, but I hoped you liked it anyway. I like to think of it as the actual quote being Stan's thoughts and the last bit being Fiddleford's. Fidds knows you don't have to be alone.**


	2. Ford

**Tw: Mental issues. Not Stancest.**

* * *

The door opened with a creak. His footsteps echoed in large, empty room. Ford nodded in satisfaction.

"Perfect."

Several months later and Ford was comfortably settled in. He thought maybe he could finally boast being absolutely content for the first time in his life. He had so many discoveries waiting to happen all around him, he was somewhat secluded from the world, which was a plus in his book and he was happily settled with everything he needed to conduct his research.

So why wasn't he happy?

Ford could tell he wasn't. Something was wrong, and perhaps, deep down, he knew what was wrong all along.

He just couldn't confront it.

Because confronting it meant admitting his mistake. It meant hours of stress and worry and endless possibilities. It meant guilt. Tears.

So maybe Stanford Pines was a bit of a coward because he didn't want that.

He didn't want to admit to the worst mistake of his life.

Ford settled into the desk chair he had spent so many hours in. How much joy had he truly received ever since that fateful night? How many times did he fall asleep with a smile on his face?

Maybe Ford was selfish too. Because he wanted to be happy again.

But he couldn't be, not without... _him._

He dragged his feet to his bed. Lied down and tried to forget. To forget the world, but then the memories would decide to haunt him all through the night and he would drag himself once again out of bed, not even a wink of sleep to brag of. He would dive into his research and suppress, pushing the pain and phantom thoughts away.

Life went on like this for an entire year. It had been his first year living by himself. He tried to tell himself, to tell others that he loved it. What introvert wouldn't?

Stanford Pines couldn't stand it.

Every silence was like a ticking bomb, Ford would wait and wait for some rash or silly remark from someone who wasn't there. He wasn't sleeping, he wasn't eating.

At least when he was living with Fiddleford he had someone to fill the silence. To keep him from spiraling.

To keep him moving.

Ford wasn't built for silence. He was made for science, but he couldn't focus on science, could he? Because the darkest corners of his mind refused to leave him alone, were persistently trying to make him scream just to fill the empty room. To make it stop.

Ford found a new obsession.

He learned that looking for someone without knowing where to start was incredibly difficult.

Especially if they covered up their tracks the way Stanley had.

The night he was sure, beyond all doubt that he had succeeded, Ford did scream. He screamed in defiance to the voices. The voices that told him he would fail.

Ford waited four days. Four days of doing absolutely everything he could to make himself and his surroundings look presentable. That first day was when he realized how truly bad he let everything decline. Not only was he a mess but everything else was too.

Four days later and Ford didn't recognize himself or the house.

A knock.

Ford ran to the door and swung it open. He felt his heart stop.

He was here.

Tears pricked at Ford's eyes and fell into Stanley's arms, sobbing. He could hear every word of concern from his twin's mouth and each one was like a bandage on his damaged mind.

"I-I'm sorry, Stanley, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

Ford hummed happily when Stan just kept on talking. The silence, it was gone!

 _It's okay, I forgive you, you're going to be alright, yeesh, look at his place, Sixer! What would you do without me?_

Ford knew exactly what he would do. He didn't like it one bit.

* * *

 **Stan: ...**

 **Ford: Why?**

 **Stan: Please don't tell me you were really like this.**

 **Ford: That is positively ridiculous. I had Bill as a friend, so I wasn't completely alone.**

 **Stan: ...That is so messed up.**

 **Ford: *sigh* I know.**

 **Please review and if you beg for a fluffy sequel it might happen!**


	3. Me

**Okay, so infinite Ruby and I were chatting, and I told them I wasn't updating this fic, but then I did, because I'm impulsive, which is why I can't ever plan things, so don't believe me when I tell you I'm gonna do something at a specific time, because it probably won't happen. So that is why I am now making fluff.**

 **I can sleep after the fluff. After the fluff...  
**

* * *

Stan woke up.

No. He woke up, _angry_.

He had no reason to be mad. He had a good night's sleep, ate plenty the other day. No one had gotten hurt. Perhaps it was the remains of a forgotten dream, but Stanley Pines wasn't ready for socializing when Ford, ever the early bird, came in as he usually did to wake him up. Ford walked through the doorway and walked up to the bed. He frowned when he saw that Stan was already awake.

"Stanley, what's wrong?" Ford asked warily. Stan was...difficult to pin down at times. Ford wasn't sure how to move forward from the scowling look his brother was giving him.

That's when the dam broke, and Stan launched into his arms. Neither said anything and Stan didn't cry, but agitated huffs made Stan's attempt at releasing his emotions apparent. Ford rubbed soothing circles into his back. He thought he knew what was going on.

Sometimes people just had overloads. Like the electrical outlet after the average single male attempts to plug in everything he can into the only one he has after he has used way too many extensions.

Ford pulled away gently and Stan looked down, hiding his face. Ford spoke quietly, afraid to overwhelm him again. "Do we need to have a twin day, or do you want to be alone?"

Stan grunted softly and leaned his head against Ford's shoulder. Ford contained his chuckled and slipped away, "Alright, I'll be right back. Do you wanna stay in here or the living room?"

He shrugged and Ford made an executive decision. The living room had a tv.

Ford walked lightly out of the room to make as little noise as possible until he reached the hallway, where he made his way swiftly down the stairs. Fiddleford was waiting at the kitchen table, eyebrow cocked in question.

"Is he comin' ta breakfast?" Fidds asked, happily eating his own food. Ford shook his head.

Fidds bent his head to the side, trying to ask why without opening his mouth. Never chew your food with your mouth open kids.

Ford sighed, "I'm sorry Fiddleford, but we're going to have to reschedule our plans for today. Stanley isn't well." Fidds swallowed his food quickly and rasped out a disbelieving,

"What? What's wrong? Is he okay?"

Ford smiled, "Yes, he's alright, he's just...emtionally compromised. I believe too much human contact could be detrimental to him, but he has already reassured me that he would rather not be alone."

Fiddleford's eyes widened in understanding and he nodded, "So yer tellin' me ta scram?" Fidds teased lightly. Ford rolled his eyes, "Not in such coarse words, but yes. We might need most of the house to ourselves for today, or at the least a few hours."

Fidds gathered up his plate with a smile, "Well alrighty then, I'll be in the basement if ya need me. I hope he's okay."

Ford assured him he was and ran swiftly back upstairs. He pushed open the door slowly but stopped when he didn't see Stanley anywhere. _I was sure he didn't leave this room..._

Not one to leave stones unturned, Ford searched underneath the bed, then checked the closet.

When he opened the door to the cabinet-sized compartment, he smiled at the portable mirror that he found there. Stan was leaning against the back of the closet wall, tense, yet tired looking. Stan glanced up. He didn't smile but looked grateful when Ford pulled him out and into his arms. They stayed like that for a moment, Stan clinging to Ford as Ford held him when-

"You wanna have a match?" Ford whispered, the hint of laughter on his breath. Stan couldn't help but chuckle. Ford brought him downstairs and left him there as he went to search his room for the box he needed.

"Ah- here it is." Ford pulled it out of his own closet and shut the door behind him. Hefting it by its edges, he carried it downstairs, where Stan was pacing in a circle. He looked up when Ford entered the room and Ford held up the box proudly.

They opened it up and inside was all of their old kickboxing gear. Stan still didn't say anything, but smirked, silently challenging him. Ford mimicked his expression.

"You're on."

...

By the end of the day, Stanley was right as rain. Fiddleford came up very occasionally and was immensely surprised to see Stan pinned by Ford, both of them decked out in boxing gear the one time he went to check on them, but made sure he didn't say anything. It looked violent and uncomfortable to him, but they seemed to be having fun.

Stan, even though he felt loads better, still didn't talk much of the day. He kept to himself, hiding away when Fiddleford came up for dinner. Ford waved off Fiddleford's concern and told him that Stan was fine, but that he would probably prefer silence the rest of the day since his raging mind had calmed and gotten used to the quiet. He would be his old self come morning.

Ford smiled as he thought of the day he had. Although it was strange, he enjoyed himself. The silence wasn't really all that silent when he and Stan were together. Stanley talked more with his body than most people did anyway. He was so...loud. Even when he never uttered a word. It was all so thoroughly _Stan,_ that it made Ford laugh just thinking about it. Fidds gave him a weird look, but he shrugged it off.

Let Fidds be confused. He wouldn't find it funny anyway, that was all Ford.

After everyone, including Stan, ate, {Ford left him a plate upstairs.} Ford apologized for not being there for the Fidds that day, who laughed off his apology with an understanding smile. Ford told him goodnight and left upstairs to check on his brother.

Stanley was in the closet again for no obvious reason other than that he wanted to be there. He smiled up and Ford from the book he had been reading. Ford scowled in mock rage when he saw it was his Journal. And not his scientific one either. He sat down beside his twin and Stan pointed at the part of the page he found most amusing.

The passage Stan had been reading was from several years ago and it read;

 _Did you know that cuckoo clocks have been known to be one of the most haunted objects throughout history? I was studying during my lunch when I came across this piece of information. I must know the truth. There have been several instances-*imcomprehensible genius babble that only the author could ever read*._

Ford read the passage and looked up at Stan to see what he had to 'say'. Stan mouthed the word 'nerd.' and Ford rolled his eyes. Taking the book out of Stanley's sneaky fingers he pulled himself and Stan out of the closet once again.

"It's bedtime Stanley, or does someone need a bedtime story?" Ford taunted under his breath. Stan pushed him away with a silent groan, yet to Ford, it was as audible as if he had yelled out for the world to hear.

Stan left to go get ready for bed, and Ford followed suit. When he tried to leave for his own room though, Stanley stopped him, tugging on his arm. Ford thought about denying his twin's blunt request, but no one would have an easy time saying no to their own face. He nodded an agreement and Stan let him go without complaint.

Ford returned to the living room with his blanket and pillow and Stan returned with his own. Ever since the twins were introduced to separate rooms, little 'sleepovers' were not uncommon.

Stan settled on the floor, so Ford took the couch. Ford assumed Stan preferred this because of the height difference. They had bunk beds as children, and it felt more natural that way. The way it was supposed to be. Ford's arm hung limply over the side and Stan took the opportunity to count his fingers again and again in a sort of rhythm as they fell asleep.

 _Really,_ Fiddleford thought when he got up the next morning, _these two are adorable. Like two innocent children with the faces of men._

And who would disagree after being faced with their identical sleep faces? Certainly not you, the reader, who is squealing or dying of the weird fluff I have given you.

* * *

 **This is what my day looked like. I woke up, feeling angry for no reason and shut myself in my closet. I haven't spoken more than twenty words today. Compared with the twenty-thousand I am scientifically averaged with, as is every woman, I can only assume my throat shall feel very strange in the morning. (Maybe that's why I wrote so much today...)**

 **So, basically, I shoved my issues onto my boys, sorry.**

 **Stan: Yeah, why would you do that? I always talk, this was unnerving.**

 **Me: I talk _a lot_ which is why you are me in this fic. **

**Ford: I do believe, personality wise, she is more in line with you, Stanley.**

 **Stan: *Scoffs* Yeah right.**

 **Me: You're going to regret that.**

 **Please review and things.**


	4. Bloody knuckles

**Tw: Angst, blood, dirty gloating cowards.**

* * *

The floor beneath his face tasted like feet and sweat. He spat, ignoring the blood that accompanied it. His arms went underneath his body, forcing himself up once more. He was immediately knocked back to the ground. He gritted his teeth and held back a groan as his ribs were hit again and again with the sharp kicks of his opponent.

Both his eyes were watering. He was sure he had a broken rib and his knuckles were covered in bright red scratches, bleeding freely onto the floor. His legs shook beneath him as he got up again. This time he made it completely to his feet before he was struck right in the face, falling backward onto the mat. His head hit the floor, he probably had a concussion at this point. His vision blurred and swam as he rolled onto his stomach to get up again.

Nothing could keep him down. Not even a two-hundred-pound bare-knuckle boxing man built like a truck. The crowd cheered on behind him, although whether it was for him or his competitor, he wasn't sure.

The man-Jack went to kick him down again, but stopped, leaning by his ear. Jack spat viciously in his ear. "You just don't know when to cut your losses and stop, do ya?"

He didn't answer. Standing up again, he faced Jack with a grimace, legs shaking and his face a bloody mess. He held up his hands and Jack shrugged.

"Whatever fool. Enjoy the hospital." Jack sneered and lunged at him again and Stan swung to the side, dodging the sloppy attack. He elbowed Jack's back and he fell to the floor, not expecting any resistance.

Swinging as hard as he could, he brought his foot right into the man's face with all his leftover strength. The man whimpered at the loud crack that accompanied the hit. Jack's nose was broken, for sure. Jack, the coward he was, stayed down and the referee shook his head at how pathetic it was. This mystery man was much better at taking a beating.

The referee called the match and held up the mystery man's hand. The crowd booed, unsatisfied and angry their champion was beaten so easily. The ref looked at the winner sympathetically when he felt his hand rip away.

The new champion shrugged and walked out. He grabbed his reward, stole a couple people's wallets and left. The entire crowd giving him glares on the way out.

Going out to his car, the man sat in the front seat and attended his wounds, being sure to hide away his paycheck. (After driving far, far away.)

No one would help him. No one cared. Stan sighed.

He was better off alone anyway.

* * *

 **I don't know how boxing works.**

 **I take no responsibility for any tears I may have caused.**

 **Never mind. I apologize. *hands you tissues.* Sorry.**


	5. Tired

**He needs help.  
**

* * *

He was in shock. He couldn't remember being in so much pain. Not when he was stabbed in that alleyway or beaten to a pulp in the ring. {Rough gravel beneath his hand, stabbing, stinging words...that was worse, so much worse than this, but he needed to focus.} He removed his shaking hand and put it back almost instantly. He was bleeding out from his stomach, right below the ribs. He didn't think the bullet hit anything important, but that didn't stop him from hyperventilating. He was losing blood fast and needed medical attention, but he didn't think he was going to get any from the man who shot him, who had already made a run for it.

No one wanted to help a dangerous looking man bleeding out on the side of the road. That one man had been a strange, strange fluke. A mistake.

Using his legs, his arms clinging to his middle, Stan tried to find the exit to the dark warehouse he'd been abandoned in. His legs shook beneath him and he struggled to move, he moved one arm to the wall to help steady himself.

He tripped a fair few times, fighting his way through the darkness slowly. His hand miraculously found the door handle and he opened it, using his entire body weight to open the industrial door. It swung open and he found himself outside in the burning heat, hands scraping against the sandy ground. Sand, he hated it with a passion.

He blinked, eyes adjusting to the light. He was starting to get light headed. He turned, gazing out with blurred vision to find his car, the beloved StanleyMobile. He glimpsed a flash of red from his right and forced himself off the ground, heading towards it drunkenly.

It seemed like an eternity, but he eventually made it, leaning against the burning metal with relief at finally making it home. {No, not home, this isn't home, it isn't, it can't be...}

He fumbled with the door handle, finding it harder and harder to see as black spots filled his vision. The door finally opened and he collapsed in the seat. He rested for a moment, fighting to keep his eyes open. His hand searched limply for the bandages he kept stored away underneath the seat and he sighed in relief when his hand rubbed against the soft-ish fabric. He pulled them out and did his best to blink away the exhaustion.

But that was _hard._ His eyes felt like they had weights hanging off them. His mouth was swollen and dry from lack of water, every breath pulled at his wound and he would be surprised at how conscious he was if he weren't so _tired._

 _C'mon, get it together Pines. It's just a bit of blood for goodness sakes._ He berated himself. The words tried to come out verbally, but couldn't make it past his swollen tongue. He slowly but surely bandaged up his abdomen and fell back on the seat, unable to stop his eyelids as they slid shut.

 _At least I don't have to worry about being attacked...no one is around in this_ place...

He was alone. Alone was good. Alone was safe.

Stan Pines was alone.

* * *

 **So much angst, I'm sorry. But that's what you signed up for reading this...so.**

 **Sorry about having so much Stan angst, he's just easier to write...I'll get on with some more Ford angst...**


	6. Parallels

**Someone ask for twin parallels?**

* * *

Ford whimpered, legs scraping against the hot pavement as he tried to move away from their kicking feet. He wasn't a freak! He wasn't! They just didn't understand...

His back hit a wall and he curled in on himself as they closed in, showing no mercy as they beat him relentlessly. Each hit was a strain on both his body and his mind as he felt his confidence in himself shattering.

 _Weak. Pathetic._

 _Freak._

They left him, bleeding and bruised on the ground behind the school. He didn't move, shocked at how much everything _hurt._ He had been bullied in school, but ever since Stan...

 _No! I don't need him, I don't need Stan. Stan is gone..._

 _Gone._

Ford sniffed, tried to stifle his groans of pain as he attempted to stand up. His legs and arms were trembling with the effort it took to move and he fell to the side, gripping the brick wall for support. He shuffled forward, looking away from people passing by in shame. They avoided him in equal discomfort.

Ford stumbled his way across the courtyard, trying his best to make it back to his dorms. Currently, he lived alone. He was supposed to get a roommate at some point, but they hadn't arrived yet.

It took tremendous effort, but he managed to make it back to his room, even if he did have to crawl at one point. He leaned against the door, making it shut with a _bang!_ He hobbled to the bathroom and examined himself in the mirror. The bruises were going to give him heck later, but nothing seemed broken. His nose was bleeding, but he didn't think that was broken either. He gathered up a bit of tissue and stuffed it up his nose. Not very dignified, but he couldn't really care just then. He checked the rest of his body, not finding enough to worry himself over. It would hurt for _weeks_ , but it wasn't anything to bother a doctor or even a nurse about. Those guys knew what they were doing.

Really, it wasn't that bad. He just hoped that the teachers wouldn't suspend him for fighting. They never cared who started it.

Pulling on the sink handle he splashed some water on his face, scrubbing some of the blood off. He noticed one of his eyes were beginning to swell. Great, now he was going to have a black eye along with everything else.

Ford turned to leave the bathroom, and made his way to his desk, hoping to get some more work done. Injuries or no, he had a test tomorrow. His overwhelming exhaustion could wait until he went over his notes one {several} more times.

He took a steadying breathe, glad to finally be alone. Alone was good, it was safe.

Stanford Pines was alone.

* * *

 ***Shrug* Ford had it good until those last few years in Gravity Falls- before then, Stan really had the short end of the stick. Bonus: I wanted to add Fiddleford, so here ya go:**

Ford cursed when he heard a knock at the door. Who on earth would be knocking on his door? He tried to ignore it, trying to focus on the papers in front of him. It continued and a muffled voice joined the knocking until Ford couldn't stand it anymore. He stood up to open the door and let out an involuntary whine when his legs shook beneath him, the bruises making every movement torture.

He made it to the door and opened it up a crack, just enough to peek out with his good eye. His breath hitched.

A scrawny, surprised man stood outside the door. The man smiled into the small opening. Ford noticed the box in his hands and felt his curiosity act up.

"Howdy! I'm Fiddleford, your roommate? Room 341? I know I'm a week or so late, but I really couldn't get here any earlier. May I come in?"

Ford felt his face burn. He really didn't need this right now, but it wasn't like he could keep the man out, could he? {Well, he could, but that wouldn't be fair. It was his dorm too.}

Ford undid the latch and turned away quickly, trying to hide his bruise and scruffed up face. "Um, sure. Come in, please." Ford felt pleased his voice was so steady. The man followed in him, eyes searching over the mess of a dorm. Ford out of the corner of his eye, saw Fiddleford's brow raise in questioning amusement.

Ford felt himself flush again. "Sorry, it's a bit of a mess..." Books were scattered everywhere, and the trash was filled with black stained paper cups, presumably many and many cups of coffee.

Fiddleford just smiled good-naturedly. He put his box on the bed that wasn't covered in textbooks. Ford nodded, that wasn't his bed. {Yes, he slept in the chair...or on the books, wherever he fell asleep really.}

"Well, I think it's wonderful. At least I don't have to visit the library now." Fiddleford teased as he picked his way through the endless mess. Ford made the mistake of sending him a grateful smile, and Fiddleford gasped,

"Wha' happened to yer face!?" Fiddleford stumbled over the piles of paper to reach out. Ford flinched away and hid his face. He muttered something under his breath that Fiddleford was hard pressed to hear.

"Nothing, it's fine."

Fiddleford would not stand for it. It didn't matter who this man was, he was obviously a fellow committed student, like himself. Ford stared in shock as Fiddleford lifted his face up by Ford's chin, tutting like an exasperated mother at her child.

"Now, this ain't nothing! What happened? Do you have any ice?" Fiddleford shuffled his way to the tiny kitchen where a small {empty} fridge and freezer stood. Ford blinked, stunned.

Fiddleford found the ice and laughed at his shocked face. "What? Here, put this on it, it should bring the swellin' down. Anyone tell you ya look like an owl?"

Ford shook his head slowly and then cocked his head to the side when the question sunk in.

"Wait, what?"

Fiddleford smirked, "Ya look like an owl with that surprised look on yer face. What's yer name, by the way? Ya, look kinda familiar..." Fiddleford trailed off and Ford felt his heartbeat pick up. Had this man met his brother?

Ford swallowed, "Um- Stanford. Stanford Pines." He held the ice pack to his eye and he had to admit it felt good. Fiddleford smiled again.

"Well, it's nice to meet ya Stanferd."

"Likewise."

Ford's mind was running on autopilot, still a little shocked.

Maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.

* * *

 ***sigh* Sorry, I just...Stanford really doesn't do well alone...*shrug* Sue me, but I just can't leave my fluffy Ford alone. Idk why I can do it to Stan though.**

 **Stan: You are evil, that's why.**

 **Me: Well, I can't disagree with that. Love ya nerds ;) have a great non-lonely day!**


End file.
